White Feathers
by Finnity
Summary: Summary: WWI era. Sirius is on leave in London. Remus is a cafe worker and old friend.


It's mostly friendship Remus/Sirius with possible undertones, because I originally wrote it for a class (so I had to keep the slash to an undetectable level); though I think I edited them all, if you happen upon a "Nate," that's Remus, and "James" is Sirius, not James Potter.

Summary: WWI era. Sirius is on leave in London. Remus is a cafe worker and old friend.

White Feathers

The sun was beginning to peak through the grey, shrinking clouds that bulged with the threat of rain. A few rogue rays broke free from the gloom to cast the street in a pale light. A young man watched the teeming sidewalk through a café window across the street. Women strolling and children frolicking in the crisp, autumnal wind as though there wasn't a war on. Men- injured, on leave, and "conchies" alike- mingling in the streets like it made no difference. Amidst the mass he thought he spotted something familiar, an inkling of recognition that confirmed itself in the form of a man- young like him, but tan-clad with an outdoor hue and eyes like beacons that scanned the scene before him. Cursing himself for a coward, the young man quickly turned his back to the window and busied himself with tidying up a nearby table he vaguely recalled cleaning ten minutes earlier. The bell chimed a new arrival.

"Hello?" a voice ventured. The young man stopped and turned sharply. "Ah, it _is_ you. Long time no see, Remus."

It was him. Remus recognized the boyish congeniality from their youth, as well as the dark sweep of hair that was no longer a tad too long to be socially acceptable. He had the army cut, of hair and of cloth. The tan uniform was as conspicuous in the London cafe as it was discreet on the frontlines.

"Ah," he began a little unsurely when Remus had yet to speak, which was so uncharacteristic of Sirius that the name tore from his lips almost like an inquiry.

"Sirius Black." It was all he seemed capable of articulating.

"Yup," Sirius confirmed. "Wasn't sure if you recognized me. I know it hasn't been _that_ long, but the way you were looking at me…"

"Yeah, sorry…" He wasn't. "What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd come in for a nice, hot cup of tea," he said, draping himself over the nearest seat and smiling that infuriating smile of his.

"No," Remus said patiently. "What are you doing _here_- London? You on leave?"

"I was, yeah." He smiled still. For a second, the muscles looked unused to the strain. Remus inspected him. Up close, his eyes looked less luminous, as though a cloud had passed through them, and underneath were dark shadows that looked like healing bruises only sleep could remedy.

"How long have you got?"

"Until tomorrow," Sirius answered, then added upon seeing Remus's confusion, "I've been back nearly a week already."

A week, Remus thought, regarding the grey bags under his eyes dubiously.

"Anyway," Sirius interjected. "I could really use that tea, and it wouldn't be very nice to make me drink it alone after I haven't seen you in so long."

"I haven't the time," Remus answered honestly, if not entirely remorsefully. "Work, you know." He waved his arm to encompass the sparsely populated café. The square, mahogany tables outstripped the number of people, it seemed, who sipped idly at their tea under the various magazine clippings of the goings-on in France, black-and-white portraits of men in uniform, and a large British flag spun of faded blue, red, and white thread.

"Afterwards then?" he questioned, almost desperately. "Only I'd like to talk a bit more, and I leave in the morning."

"Ah- my boss is waving at me. I'll be back in a moment with your tea," Remus said, and dashed for the counter.

"That lad in uniform," the rotund shopkeeper questioned with a bob of his drooping chin in Sirius's direction, "He a friend of yours?" Remus nodded uncertainly. "Bring him tea and milk- and heck; we can even spare a bit of sugar, on the house of course. Small thanks for his work in France. I would've gone myself if I was young enough." Nate nodded again and carried the tea and the message to Remus.

"Oh," he said bemusedly. "On the house?"

"Mmhm. Says you can have all the sugar and cream you like if you keep 'shooting gerries'. Did you want anything else?"

"No. Thanks." He took the proffered cup from Remus and set it distractedly on the table.

A thin young woman, if she was old enough to be called that, descended upon the silence like a bird of prey. She appraised and dismissed Remus in the same glance. Her fingers dotted off the tan cloth covering Sirius's shoulder. Nate felt rekindled resentment burn low in his stomach. "Looking for some company?" she queried.

"We're all full up on that, thanks," answered Sirius, pushing his full cup of tea aside with an inattentive smile. Then, toward Remus with affected casualness, "I've still got that picture you drew of me and Sharon."

The girl, perceiving the dismissal, turned up her aquiline nose and walked away. Sirius pulled a dog-eared sheet of paper which, when he smoothed it across the tabletop, revealed a detailed sketch of a smiling, broad-faced girl and Sirius with younger, less drawn features.

"Oh yeah?" Remus asked perfunctorily. "Have you been to see her? How is she?"

"Yes, just been. She's good. It's hard, you know, being away so long and coming back expecting things to be the way they were."

Yes, Remus agreed silently. Out loud he said, "Why aren't you there, instead of here?"

"Oh," said Sirius, sobering up. "I had to bring Gideon's watch to his girl. You know the one- she had it engraved when he was drafted. She works at the factory down the street."

"Why-" Remus began uncertainly, over a sudden clog in his throat. "Why would you need to bring his watch to her?"

Sirius looked at him as if he wasn't quite sure how to respond. Suddenly he looked older. "Gideon's dead. It was in the papers," he added, almost like an accusation.

Remus received the news with the form of numbness with which everyone met bad news these days; cold and indifferent as the air that surrounded them. "I don't read the papers anymore." Nor did he speak to anyone who might have known Gideon. Not since he'd moved away.

A silence descended upon them, of the brand that plagued old acquaintances who have just exchanged amenities and have little else to go on. Neither of them was used to it. Unwilling to end their communication just yet, Remus asked, "When are you leaving?" To erase the insinuation of dismissal from his tone, he amended, "I could see you off at the train station."

"Six sharp, from Victoria Station," Sirius recited. "I doubt anyone would voluntarily rise at that ungodly hour though."

"Victoria Station?" he echoed. "That's not a block from my flat."

"Really? You live that close to a train station? Pity you."

"Honest," Remus replied, ignoring the jest, and on some inexplicable whim followed with, "If you'd like to save some money on a room, you could always stay at mine."

Whatever shadow that had shrouded him quickly cleared from Sirius's face, and for a split second his eyes shone as brightly as they used to. Whatever reservations Remus had were swiftly dispelled.

Hours later they walked idly along the leaf-strewn sidewalks to Remus's apartment. They climbed the flights of stairs with only Remus's laborious puffs of breath punctuating the silence, before Sirius stopped them to say he had to tie his shoe. Remus remained silent and accepted the reprieve, however poorly disguised, but couldn't keep the frown from his brows at the perceived slight on his condition. By the time he'd unearthed his key and opened the door, he had little energy left for embarrassment. Not even for the sorry state of his apartment.

The room was Spartan in its lack; there were no potted plants, no floral curtains, and even the threadbare duvet signaled nothing more than use. The only indication that it was more than a cell came from the drawings that littered any raised surface, some little more than vague outlines and geometric backbones. These, however, did not catch Sirius's eye, but rather the array of long white feathers strewn about the room like flower petals. A dozen or so splayed the expanse of the end table like an old-fashioned hand fan. Several more jutted out from the bed posts and stacks of books resembling a garden of sprouted quills. They had become so accustomed to Remus that they had momentarily escaped his recollection.

"Remus, what are...?" Sirius trailed off into a disbelieving stupor as he surveyed the room. Incredulity quickly transformed into anger as he plucked each feather from its place and marched toward the open window.

"What are you doing?" Remus cried, rushing to his side.

But he had already let them loose into the wind. Remus watched the symbolic feathers women had thrust at his civilian-clothed body flutter down almost innocently into the street below like overlarge snowflakes. He recalled the women's faces and momentarily relived his shame.

"If you want reminders of something," Sirius said, picking up a couple of unfinished sketches, "hang _these_ up. Those feathers don't _mean_ anything, okay? They don't know about you."

"Okay," Remus agreed, even as he felt the vestiges of bitterness stirring up anew and warring with fondness for Sirius's impervious kind heart. "Okay. They don't mean anything."

It was nearly sunrise when he woke the next morning. He watched the blue gradient of the night sky recede through the adjacent window. A pair of birds chirped back and forth as usual. They seemed to serve a function today- an alarm clock, Remus decided, instead of the irritating harbingers of morning that usually woke him two hours before he needed them to. Remus checked his watch and sure enough, it signaled half past five. Sirius's train would leave in thirty minutes. He lifted himself from his makeshift bed and stretched.

The empty spaces where the feathers had rested stood out like a sign. His eyes roamed over the myriad sketches scattered across the room- some halfway done, some barely more than a semblance of an idea; none wholly completed- to Sirius, whose weary face was cast in a light dampened by the blinds. Shadows dispelled, he looked younger; like the boy Remus remembered: bold as brass, boisterous, full of life and potential. Perhaps it was the lack of uniform, Remus thought, eyes alighting on the offending garment.

"Sirius," he called, and Sirius twitched into consciousness. "You have half an hour."

At the station, women said goodbye with tears and kisses. Men in uniform looking haggard and yet somehow renewed entered the train in threes and fours, waving from open windows to their sweethearts, children, and friends. Sirius and Remus parted with a friendly clap on the shoulder, and on Sirius's part, a garish salute.

"Here," Sirius had said, slipping a page into Remus's coat pocket before swiftly withdrawing. As Sirius ran through the open doors, Remus opened it to reveal the smiling girl and boy he'd drawn so long ago. "Hang it up and give your place a little character," Sirius yelled from the window, and his hearty laughter resonated even as the train screeched to a start. Remus watched it pensively slip into the distance before heading home to do as Sirius said. Soon, perhaps, another completed work would join it.

The End.

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